"I want to show you something," I started, clutching the tablet to my chest, screen in so he didn't get to peek until I was done with my preface. "And I want you to understand that I am just showing you this as a suggestion. It isn't a demand or anything like that. It's just a..."
"Alright, enough of that," he rumbled at me, grabbing the tablet, pulling it in front of himself.
"It is just an idea," I told him, my belly sloshing around ominously as he just stared at the screen.
I'd been watching the market for ages in quiet moments when I knew Ranger wouldn't see, just checking out the options, never finding anything even remotely acceptable.
Until I found this one.
This little cabin on a giant piece of land.
"I know one-hundred-and-fifty acres isn't quite one-point-one million acres," I kept talking, nerves sparking off as the seconds passed and he said nothing. "But it is a lot," I went on. "And it has a pond and two rivers and tons of trees and really fertile land and... okay. I'm sorry. I, just, it was a silly idea," I told him, reaching for the tablet, trying to pull it from his giant fingers.
"Take a breath," he demanded, finger moving down the screen, looking at the specs.
"It's fine, really, if you think this is just ridiculous. I was just... Looking around. It's nothing."
"Not nothing," he countered. "How long have you been sitting on this?"
"Not that long." Because I was terrified it would be snatched up before I even got a chance to make the suggestion.
"Longer than the half an hour since I saw you last?" he clarified, and I had to take a breath before answering.
"Yes."
"Don't like that," he told me, never one to mince words. "Don't want you to feel like you have to keep anything from me. Not after all this time."
It was true.
We didn't have secrets.
Six months after I came back to him and told him I loved him, he had sat me down, shoulders tense, and informed me of what he had done while I was gone.
About Vincent Westcourt.
In a lot of detail.
I should have maybe been disgusted, horrified at the act of torture and murder. Maybe I should have looked at Ranger differently because of it. But the fact of the matter was, it seemed like justice to me. I couldn't be sad or regretful that someone who had tormented me ended up tormented as well.
It was fair in the justice scales of life.
And I had already known what Ranger had been forced to do back in his military days. I understood there was a darkness to him.
So it changed nothing.
And since we shared literally everything else, there were no secrets to keep. Except maybe the time or two I could tell he was holding back grumbles when I served spaghetti too often. Little, nothing things.
Not like this.
"I wasn't keeping it from you. I was just... I didn't know what you would think."
To that, his lips tipped up at one side. "Seem to remember an ass-chewing I once got about how people should ASK about things instead of assuming." He paused, reaching over, giving my curled fist a little squeeze. "I think this is a good idea."
I was pretty sure I misheard him.
Or I was having some sort of stroke or something.
"What?"
"I think it's a good idea," he told me again, scrolling through the pictures of the land, the house. "Needs a lot of work."
"I know it's kind of expen..."
"We have the money," he cut me off.
That was true enough. We spent very little. And there had been many clients over the years. With me around, apparently, they didn't find it quite as torturous as they used to, which meant they often felt comfortable staying longer than they used to. And we got paid accordingly.
The money piled up.
More than enough to buy the place with no debt, to fix it up, to build the greenhouses and the coops and such for all the animals.
And then still be comfortable.
"And it is still in the middle of the woods. There isn't room enough yet, but we can add an extra room for clients. Quin would probably even insist of paying for that."
"Two."
"I'm sorry?" I asked, brows furrowing.
"Two rooms. One for clients..."
"And the other for?" I asked, needing to hear him say it, not wanting to assume, terrified we weren't on the same page about it, and not wanting to expose that vulnerability if he wasn't.
"Thinking we got to get on the family-having thing sooner rather than later."
And there it was.
Just when I was sure my heart was simply too full, he went and made it overflow.
"Yeah?" I asked, blinking the tears out of my eyes.
"Yeah," he agreed, giving me a strange smile, one I didn't quite know how to interpret. Not even after all these years. "And I figure if we are gonna go out into the world," he went on, reaching into his pocket, "I should maybe marry you," he declared, making my heart seize.
I was too busy trying to process that idea, never having given it much thought since it was completely unnecessary. We belonged to each other. We didn't need the paperwork to prove it.
But Ranger wanted to share paper with me.
He wanted the world to know we were together.
And, well, in processing all of that, it took me almost a full minute before I realized what he was holding in his hand.
A ring.
On a chain.
And not just any ring on a chain.
My ring on a chain.
My grandfather's ring on a chain.
I figured it was lost forever, hadn't given it much thought over the years, letting it go like I had needed to let go of the bracelet my mother had left me that had somehow fallen off when I had been running errands, never to be turned in and returned to me.
"Oh, my God. How... where," I started, shaking my head as I took it in my hand, almost forgotten, but so familiar at the same time.
"He had it," he explained. "I took it back."
My gaze flew upward.
"He?" I asked, body stiffening. "As in he?"
"Yeah," he admitted, looking guilty.
As he should.
"You had my ring for almost seven years, and you never thought to give it back to me?"
I guess we did keep secrets after all.
"I was gonna mail it back to you," he told me, meaning when I was back in my old life when he had forced me out of his. "And I couldn't make myself. Then there you were. It's fucking ridiculous, but I saw it as a good luck charm," he admitted, shaking his head at the sentimentality of that.
Sure, he was big, strong, tough, hardened, dark, and scary.
But he was also the biggest mush you could ever meet at times.
I mean only with me.
But that was all that mattered, wasn't it?
Taking a breath, I opened the lobster clasp, pulling the ring off the chain, and reaching for Ranger's left hand, sliding it onto his fourth finger, amazed when it fit.
My gaze moved up, finding his, somehow seeing it all right there, right then.
The future.
Everything.
In him.
With him.
"I guess my grandfather was a smart man," I mused , running my finger over the band, touching Ranger's skin in the process. "This really did bring me my very own perfect happily-ever-after."
"It isn't over yet," he reminded me, hands slipping down, sinking into my butt.
And, well, we celebrated that night.
Three times.
The next morning, Ranger made the offer.
Ranger - 7 years
Nothing ever goes to plan when you are buying a house. It was some universal law or something.
The process was complicated by the cabin on the property that had, as ironic as this was, not been legally built.
There were inspections and reports and modifications that needed to be carried out for the township to give us a certificate of occup
ation.
Meadow and I had waited for the inspector to leave before we both burst out laughing.
Thank fuck we had managed to have a sense of humor about the process because, otherwise, I could see the whole thing ruining relationships, making people throw up their hands, say that they not only didn't want the house anymore, but each other either.
But they were just technicalities, things that needed to be fixed.
The difficulty was compounded by the fact that someone always had to be there, had to meet with the inspectors, oversee the changes, sign off on shit. And the cabin in the Barrens wasn't exactly a quick or easy trip. And we couldn't leave all the animals for any extended period of time.
We'd been apart a lot on and off during the renovations - sometimes Meadow staying back in the woods, sometimes me.
By the time we finally had the goddamn paperwork to sign, we just wanted the whole thing over with.
"Is that everything?" Meadow asked, looking around the very empty cabin.
It was a bittersweet thing to move on. To leave somewhere that had been home to most of your fondest memories.
"They're just walls," she told me, sensing my mood as we stood there near the door, looking around. "The memories come with us."
It was a new chapter.
For us, of course, but maybe especially for me.
I won't lie.
There had been moments of regret, of that niggling little voice of fear. I often had to remind myself that it wouldn't be that much of a change. Not really. We would still be in a giant forest with no neighbors. We would still live off the land. We would still have our animals. We would still be far enough out of the way that no one would just pop over, show up without warning.
The only difference was, this was official.
There was paperwork.
There were people who knew where we were officially.
The man I had been before Meadow had come into my life would have been terrified of being found, of being legitimate in any official capacities.
Time - and the love of the right woman - could really change just about anything.
"Oh, wait," she said, thrusting the box at me, making it wobble around on the other one I was already carrying as she rushed across the room to the top of the fireplace, reaching for something, coming back to me, opening her hand.
Captain's collar.
The pain in her eyes was as fresh as the day he had climbed up beside her on the couch while she drank her coffee, rested his head on her legs, then fallen asleep.
And didn't wake up.
She'd been absolutely inconsolable for a full week, unable to function, to stop crying. The tears came from a bottomless well deep inside, mourning the loss of her best friend, her most loyal companion, the first dog she had ever loved, her savior, her sentry, her foot warmer.
It had been three years since then.
And we had known a lot of loss.
We had a collection of collars.
But none hurt quite as much as his loss.
"I think it's time," she told me, clutching it to her chest.
"Time?"
"I saw this quote once on a dog rescue page once. It said something about how you should never say you could never get another dog after the loss of a beloved one, but that you should find an unloved one, honor the lost one's memory by making another dog's life better. I think it's time. Captain would have wanted us to save more dogs. It was selfish to mourn this long."
"Luckily, I know just the place," I told her, wrapping my free arm around her back, curling her into my side.
I'd never been without a dog since having a warm place to keep one. And we had two still with us, old, arthritic, just enjoying their advanced ages on huge dog beds with an endless supply of treats.
But we were starting over.
We would have the room.
Have the land.
She was right.
It was time.
For so many things.
It was time for our new life to begin.
Meadow - 11 years
"I'm not saying you're ugly," Miller said, shaking her head at Jester, our newest addition. "But, well, you're ugly, buddy. I'm sorry. It's not my fault. Blame your mama and that deadbeat daddy of yours."
To be fair, Jester was, indeed, the most unfortunate looking dog ever to walk this Earth. God only knew what his origins were. He had a long, tubular body like that of a Bassett Hound, but sky-high legs like a Great Dane, and an uneven smattering of the wiry gray-black hair of a Wolfhound.
"Don't listen to your aunt," I told him, patting his ridiculous, wide, Pitbull head. "You're fine just how you are."
"You totally adopted him just because he was ugly, didn't you?"
"No one else was ever going to take him in. He was in that shelter for thirteen months. He went through three adoption fairs where he was the only dog left. We had to do it."
We'd had to do it with five other dogs as well.
Un-adoptable ones.
Like Captain had once been called.
Like all the others had been called as well.
there was no such thing as un-adoptable, just dogs in need of structure, of love, of security.
We'd proven that time and time again.
"You are the only person on the planet who would adopt a new dog just eight weeks after giving birth."
"Probably not the only person on Earth," I figured, knowing that when the right dog was there in front of you, you grabbed it, even if it would make life more complicated for a while. "And he's been pretty easy going, overall. Easier than our other new addition."
"Where is my niece?" Miller asked, looking around for the ever-present cradle that had been around when we'd had our first child, Barren.
We'd kind of doubled down on that word, that name, but, well, it meant a lot to us. It meant almost everything actually. If not for that place, we never would have met, never would have made this incredible life we were living now.
"Her Majesty is a very light sleeper," Ranger explained, coming inside with Barren on his shoulder. Not actually supporting the three-year-old with his arm or hand, just letting him bob around on his shoulder like a parrot.
It was a 'take a deep breath, Mommy' moment.
When it came to parenting, Ranger was the yang to my yin.
I was always anxious, over-protective, aware of all the potential ways something bad could happen.
And Ranger, well, he let him bob around on his shoulder like a parrot.
And ride the goats.
The goats.
The goats who liked to jump all over things and each other.
It was a true miracle that we'd made it to three without a broken bone. Or even any stitches.
Ranger had a tendency to refer to Cammy in royal terms. Her Majesty, Princess, Queen Bee.
And, to be fair, the baby earned all those titles and more. She was finicky and demanding. She had high standards that, when not met, she could wage actual wars in the household over.
We'd been spoiled with Barren who slept through the night after five days, who latched without problem, who only ever cried when he was wet, who happily just hung around in a carrier while we went about our daily tasks.
I was convinced that God did that. Gave you an easy first child so you were tricked with false confidence into having a second one.
"Come on, I'll show you her," I told her, leading her through the living room and into our bedroom where the cradle was set up in a corner.
Ranger had made the cradle after doing hours of research online on the proper safety measures, then had presented it to me at my little makeshift baby shower put together by all the women in our circle.
I had to admit, it was nice.
Having friends.
Having a support system.
It had come in handy already since Cammy did not like to sleep for more than an hour or two put together, and Ranger and I were struggling to keep moving on just a few snatched hours.
But, luckily, all the moms in the group understood how it was, popped over for a night, took care of Cammy so Ranger and I could get a full night of sleep.
If not for them, I didn't think we would have made it.
"Your swaddle game is weak, Meads," she informed me as she looked down at the round-cheeked Cammy.
"Barren hated being swaddled," I defended myself as Miller reached down, undoing my loose tucks, doing them up again tighter, something that made the restless newborn suddenly still, fall into a deeper sleep.
"There we go. Go on, Mama," she offered. "Go get your Boss Babe on. Cammy and me are good here."
Sometime after Barren had turned one and was happy simply to sit on the carpet surrounded by toys, I had made the decision to accept an offer I had gotten from the local health food store. To supply them with my full line of products.
The soaps, shampoo and conditioner bars, bath bombs, face serums, lotions, nipple cream for nursing moms, etcetera.
At first, it hadn't been a big deal. I'd had a large stock to begin with.
But then they started selling. And selling out. And suddenly, I had a real-time supply and demand problem. I had bi-weekly orders to fulfill.
Sure, I could have given it up, done the mommy thing full-time. But Barrens Botanicals had become something important to me. Making soap was something Ranger had first shared with me, showed me how to do, had let me make improvements, then, eventually, make them my own.
Besides, who didn't like making an income?
It didn't matter that we didn't particularly need it. It was nice to have it regardless. And it was nice to share with others the amazingness that was Ranger's creations, the labor of our love.
"Alright. If you need me, I will have my cell," I told her.
"We won't need you. Stop fussing."
Miller had been unexpectedly amazing with babies. Did you have a fussy one who wouldn't eat? Miller came running with a spoon and spaceship noises. One who had a gas bubble that wouldn't dislodge, she had the perfect bob and pat routine. One that wouldn't sleep through the night? She had them down in twenty minutes, and for a solid six hours. She'd been nicknamed Aunt Ambien for a reason.
The Babysitter Page 21